Tiger Lily
by Schuyler Lola
Summary: It could be love, you think. But it isn't, and you can convince yourself of that. At least, you think so. Oneshot, ChaseCam.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything affiliated with House. Characters, quotes and anything else belongs to David Shore and not me.

And yet…another one-shot. This one is based throughout the first three seasons, and off a quote **TwistOfTheScarlettRose**, aka EL, gave me: "You don't love a woman because she is beautiful, but she is beautiful because you love her." Thanks, EL.

Feedback is appreciated.

Tiger Lily

The petite brunette, sitting at the table, reading a file. She fascinates you. She holds the file, reading it as if it's the single most important thing she's ever seen. She holds the pages almost reverently, her face creasing in concentration, her eyes burning holes through the paper.

She cares. Her compassion radiates off of her skin, and reaches out to you, drawing you in. She cares about this person she doesn't know – and you don't know _her_, not yet – and you want to know why.

You feel someone behind you – it's House. Annoyance flickers up, you know he's going to mock you for watching her. You gear yourself for that scathing remark, that little barb. It doesn't come. Instead, he says, "Doctor Allison Cameron. She's your new playmate. Care to see how long she'll last? I'm going to say a week."

You let the annoyance grow. "Didn't you _hire _her?"

He waves this away. "A hundred bucks."

"No," you say, walking away from him.

You think you want her to stay.

* * *

"Hey, do you want to -" 

"No." She marches past you, her hair nearly hitting your face. You deflate. You hate that you can feel so bruised over a slight. Just a cup of coffee or something. You're indignant. She didn't need to be so blunt about it.

But you've learned, that's the way she is, blunt. She'll tell you what she thinks; when she thinks it's prudent. So she doesn't want to have any kind of interaction with you, outside of work.

You sigh, following her out. You'll let go of it, for now. It's not a big deal.

When she smiles at you when she leaves, you wonder why you said you'd let go.

* * *

You've never put much in store with the idea of Christmas. There was never any snow in the Christmases of your youth – you remember that first day of disillusionment, when you first realized that your tree wasn't coming from a snowy forest. 

You hated the American Christmas specials after that.

But Cameron adores Christmas. _Of course_, you think. It falls in line with everything you've observed.

She's a contradictory creature.

It's Christmas Eve, and she's sitting across from you in the hospital cafeteria. The food tonight is something unidentifiable again, and you grimace at the heap on your plate. Would it kill them to feed you something that doesn't look like it's been stolen from the morgue?

She picks up her fork and stabs the suspect human organ. She drops the fork and you laugh at her face. She looks disturbed beyond belief. "Fine," she mutters, glaring. "You eat it."

"I'd like to be alive tomorrow morning, thank you," you say, pushing away your own plate.

"Looking forward to Christmas and real food?" she asks.

You feel the glares of the cafeteria workers, and suspect that there'll be poison in your food tomorrow. "Not…exactly," you reply. Your Christmas consists of nothing and no one. In fact, you might even have clinic duty tomorrow. "Want to go get something to eat?"

Cameron glances down at her plate. "I have to go home and clean,' she explains. "I have family coming."

"Oh," you say. "I see."

She slides out of the booth. "Merry Christmas, Chase."

"Merry Christmas," you echo, and you think that you might be able to manage that this year, after all.

* * *

You're surprised to see her in the office again. She stands in the doorway awkwardly for a minute, and then Foreman hugs her. 

You were under the impression that Foreman detests Cameron. This only proves that this is surreal. You continue to stare at her. She's back. In the hospital, in this department, in this room. She glides through the differential, with ease, and you can't take your eyes off her. You want to know why she came back.

"What perks?" you demand, suspiciously. She hasn't revealed anything yet – she's already shot down the usual options.

"Nothing you'd be interested in," she replies.

"So, it's not money, then?" Foreman asks. "Office space, insurance, parking – anything he could offer you, we'd be interested in."

She smiles coyly – you get the feeling that she's been waiting for this moment. "He agreed to go on a date with me."

You can't speak. You've seen people have heart attacks, but you've never felt one. Maybe this is what it's like.

"A date?" Foreman says. "Date, dinner and a movie, naked and sweaty date?"

"He only committed to the first two," she says, smirking. She looks so self-satisfied. You grope for words to describe this, this…

"He's so – he's so _old_!" you sputter. Not your most eloquent moment.

"And you're so young,' she replies, condescendingly.

"It's a big mistake," Foreman warns. _You agree_.

"It's my boss," she says. "I'm allowed to sexually harass my boss." She spouts off some orders, which you're too shocked to listen to.

You're too busy dissecting why you're jealous of House and his obligation date with her.

* * *

She's sitting in her usual spot: at the desk, laptop humming in front of her; there's mail beside her. 

The odd thing is, she's sitting still. Cameron is leaning back in the chair, her arms wrapped around a knee, staring into nothing. You narrow your eyes at her. 'Hey," you say slowly.

"Hey," she mumbles, blinking at you. She looks shell-shocked, you decide. You take a few steps into the office.

"Are you alright?" you ask.

"I'm fine," she says.

You raise your eyebrows. Yeah, like you believe her. "Sure you are," you mutter, taking a chair beside her. You wonder why there's a chair just sitting there, but then you don't care, because the expression on Cameron's face spells tragic for you. "What happened?"

She cringes at your question, shrinking away from you.

"Cameron," you say. "Allison." It feels strange coming out of your mouth – it's underused, you realize, and you feel regret at the system of distance that has been set up in the department.

"I told Cindy Kramer that she's terminal," she replies.

You rack your brain. You feel your conscience twinge, because you should know. "And?" you prod, because you need a few more vowels.

Tears well up in her eyes – oh, great, now you feel like shit – you asked, after all. You wish for her sake, that she can let go of some of that caring nature later.

You let her cry on your shoulder. You're uncomfortable with a falling-apart Cameron, but you try anyway.

And you feel your own pain, because you're aching for hers.

* * *

You peer in the mirror, rubbing your lip. You hate that she's left a mark on you. Because you regret last night, and you hate yourself for being so stupid. 

_Who doesn't sleep with a drugged-out colleague when they have the chance?_

You hate that House can make you feel worse than you do.

It's not that you _feel_ terrible; it's that you think you should feel terrible (because you took advantage of her? Because she took advantage of you? Because you were intoxicated with the idea she presented, a while ago, and now she was offering a chance?) and so, you've worked your way up here, to this plateau of safeness you've built. It's fine for you to tell her that it can never happen again – even you think you just might be lying – because it's the right thing to do. It closes the wounds before you can open them, and you think that this is the right route. Because it's easy.

You think that maybe you're protecting more than you should. Namely, her and not you.

Which is also stupid, because she was the stoned one and you weren't. She was floating several thousand feet above your head, it's doubtful she really remembers.

Who lost in this arrangement, anyway?

The familiar click of high heels echoes through the hallway. You lean out the door – it's Cameron, her messy hair whisking through the air. You watch her quick walk, the way she –

Good Lord. You have to keep working with her.

You run a finger over the gash on your lip. A very small, disobedient part of your mind remembers her as she was last night.

* * *

"You had unsafe sex?" she demands of the scared boyfriend. You roll your eyes; she's getting louder by the word. "The whole unsafe thing didn't tell you something?" 

You wonder if she's enjoying freaking out the already freaked out boyfriend of a sick heart transplant patient. He shuffles his feet. "Yeah, but we didn't like – we didn't plan…on it, you know? Just…I don't know, we're in love. We've been dating for two years."

"Practically a lifetime,' Cameron mutters. "How about a semen allergy?"

You know she's enjoying this.

"We're going to need a semen sample," you say, giving Cameron a look, and handing the kid a cup. "You can use the bathroom over there."

"Right," the kid says. He casts a look at Cameron, and she gives a sarcastic smile back. "Uh…how do I -"

"Aim and shoot," she replies.

He looks terrified of her now. He backs away.

"No thinking about Doctor Cameron, we'll know," you say. Her lips curve into a smirk, and you study her, like always.

You wonder how enjoyment at the mortification of others translates to her looking like some goddess.

"We should tell her parents," she says.

"Why stop there?" you ask. "Call the cops."

"Melinda's a minor," she points out.

"And if we nip it in the bud here, teenagers will never again have sex." You shrug. "The parents will find out when the get the bill, anyway."

"Oh, so you're fine with them finding out as long as you don't have to tell them personally?" She thrives on this kind of argument, you've discovered. Her face flushes.

"Pretty much," you say. She glares at you, like she expects something more.

"Too bad it's not you giving the sample," she says, making a show of checking the time. "We'd be done by now."

You stare at her. She smirks at you, before looking away.

* * *

You're annoyed. It's the charity casino night, and you were looking forward to not working, because you've heard that it's an enjoyable experience. 

Trust House to pull up a case out of his black hat and string you on beforehand. You cross your arms, already bored.

_Don't sulk, Robert_, your mother's voice chastises.

Sometimes you're able to hear her voice, as you want to remember it. Sometimes, it sneaks through the wall you've set up.

House is writing on the board, listing off symptoms and ignoring you as you walk in. H's found something to do and needs you to join in. You have no choice.

Not for the first time, you really hate the ER. And the clinic. And House.

Foreman looks suspicious. "And this case is Cuddy's," he points out.

"She assigned it to me," House says.

You don't believe him at all. "She agrees with you that this is something more than gastroenteritis?" you ask.

"She wouldn't have assigned it me if she didn't, would she?" your boss retorts. You don't bother arguing.

He looks at the three of you for the first time, and his stare falls on Cameron. He draws out a breath. She blushes. "What were we talking about?" he asks.

She looks pleased. You're bitter because she's happy because it's House that really noticed her.

She'd been the belle of the whole damn ball, looking like a model. You noticed when you said hi to her, earlier. You told her that she looked amazing. She does, she's in fine form tonight – and you know you're not going to tell her what she truly looks likes tonight, to you.

Because you're not sure if it's your compliment she'll remember, or his.

* * *

You find her outside, sitting on a bench in the garden. You see her from a distance, and sprint to tell her – you're still wearing scrubs and it's been hours since House went into surgery. You're free now, though. 

"He's fine," you announce to her, victorious. You feel enraptured – he's gong to be fine. He's going to be House again.

He'll still be alive to torture you and taunt you and abuse you. Usually, you despise and dread these things, but today, you appreciate them. You look forward to them.

You can hear him mocking you, for caring.

Bastard.

Cameron looks up at you, and you ca see some droplets sparkling on her lashes. "Really?" she asks. "He's really okay?"

"He's going to be fine," you stress.

She smiles, and you find yourself smiling back. "You can't wait for some snide remarks directed your way, can you?" you ask.

"I'll embrace the abuse," she kids.

"For about a day," you reply.

She plucks a flower out of the soil beside her, and pulls the petals away. A tiger lily. She twists it in her hand, admiring it. She peels the petals away. She tosses the stem on the ground and crushes a last orange petal between her fingers. She frowns at you. "Did you just come out?"

"I wanted to tell you," you say. _You wanted to find her_. "I figured you'd want to know."

"Thank," she says. She brushes a hand along her eyes, smudging her makeup. She dabs at it, but gives up.

You walk with her back to the office. She halts at the door. The blood from this morning seems to stare you both down. "Some day, huh?" she manages, staring at the crimson stain.

"Yeah," you agree, and she smiles at you again –a thin, nervous smile, but it lights the rest of the day for you.

* * *

_Microwave pizza_. 

You've never been compared to such an unappetizing kind of food before.

Although, to be fair, it's your comparison. You had microwave pizza for supper that night, so it was on your mind.

She's asleep now, hair sprawled, bundled under covers. She's curled up, blankets wrapped like a shield. You guess that a sleeping Cameron is not so different from an awake Cameron.

Is this what she's trying to do? Shield herself from disappointment over romantic failures? You roll your eyes. Has she ever looked in a mirror?

You doubt she'd have trouble filling your new role in her life.

You sit up, kicking off the few sheets she's left you – she's selfish over blankets, and you smile, even though it feels too personal for you to know right now.

Even after having sex.

It bothers you that you know so little about her personal life, yet you're embarking into what qualifies as a "relationship," with her. You're sleeping with her and you don't even know what kind of music she likes.

You still have some guidelines, some morals hidden after all this time you've spent with House.

But you know you're gong to keep violating your guidelines, regardless of the fact that it irks you.

She shifts beside you, and you study her still face. She's like Helen of Troy.

Since you're an idiot, you know that this will repeat.

You want it to.

* * *

"This isn't right," you tell her. You're tired of her frosty attitude, and how she won't look at you without some sort of pissy death wish for you. "You dumped me. You don't get to be mad." 

She rests her chin on the floor underneath the bed, avoiding your eyes. You feel a small gush of – you're not calling it love, because it's not love (it could be, you think, _but it's not_ – you can convince yourself of that) and because there's no point in loving someone who won't look at you when you're the only other person in the room.

You think of – no, you don't. You don't want to, and this time you get what you want. You pull yourself back into this house, another one you've broken into to – you're getting good at picking locks – and laying underneath this bed. She's annoyed, you know, and you're triumphant. "We had a really good thing," she begins.

_Sure_, you think. You played along for as long as you could, without feeling guilty. She had been using you, but you were using her, too.

"You broke the rules," she continues, "I'm angry." She pauses, and you're exhausted again, because she shouldn't be mad. You're supposed to be mad. "I'll get over it."

You reach for the vent, prying it from the wall. She waits patiently.

A bloody pink t-shirt. Hidden in an air vent in a six year old's bedroom. You hear Cameron's sharp gasp. There's so much blood on the t-shirt, and you're panicked now.

She puts it in a bag, her hands shaking, and while you're horrified, you're happy, too, because instead of the façade she's been giving you, you can feel what she's thinking.

* * *

You hear the doorbell ring, and you groan. You hope to God that it isn't anybody that you'll have to spend longer then thirty seconds talking to –like that lady from next door, who lost her cat last week. You grimace and reach for the knob. At least you're about to leave anyway. 

A familiar mane of dark hair, curling at the tips is what you first see, and you think, _It can't really be her_. She spins to face you, and it is her, and you wonder why she's' bothered to track you down here. Isn't she supposed to be working? You stare at her, not really connecting the person in front of you with the person you know. "Hi," you say, confused.

She looks nervous, but again, she's dressed up for you. She shines in the streetlight, pale and bright-eyed. You wait for her – even though you're afraid if she speaks, she'll break the illusion. You'll be alone in your apartment again.

"It's Tuesday," she blurts.

You think you know why she's here, but you don't want to hope. She's got a knack of doing exactly opposite of what you expect of her.

"Uh…no, It's Monday," you reply. _And she's still here and you don't know why and she's not making any sense, and you think that she's – _

"I know," Cameron says. She takes a breath, holding your hopes aloft for one more precious second. "It's just…" _and you want her to just say it_, "I didn't feel like waiting."

You kiss her, threading your hands through her hair. She presses against you, and that night, you realize that she's never sparkled like that until then.

And that's when you know you love her, for certain.


End file.
